


And All of the Ghouls Come Out to Play

by o2doko



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o2doko/pseuds/o2doko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after moving the team into the mansion, Charles finds himself unable to sleep -- and he isn't the only one.  Erik offers to distract him, and what ensues is a brief, wordless game of creation and destruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All of the Ghouls Come Out to Play

**Author's Note:**

> Title and beginning quote taken from Florence + The Machine's song, "Shake it Out."
> 
> This was meant as a short little writing exercise to help me deal with writer's block -- may develop into a fuller, better-written story if there's an interest, but for the moment it's meant to be a brief stand-alone work. Comments very much welcome.

_And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't_

_So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road_

_And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope_

_It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat_

 

 

His rooms at Oxford had never been small, exactly, but the old mansion is a different category of 'large.'  Listening to the wind howling around the eaves now, the chill in the midnight air somehow seeming to frost the half-empty glass in his hand, Charles Xavier can feel the labyrinthine hallways stretching out and away from the study's closed doors – dark imprints unseen, blurred in the uncertain territory between his present mind and past memories.  He's standing in front of the fire: nominally for warmth, though there's something about the shadows in this house which always has a way of making him press closer to the light.  It's an embarrassment, and in quiet moments like these he finds himself grateful for the fact that he's the only telepath in their midst.

 

The fire spits suddenly, sullenly, as a dark, flaky _something_ peels itself away from the inside wall of the chimney and plummets into the licking flames.  The brief motion recalls his attention and creases his brow into a thoughtful frown; really, he should have talked to someone about cleaning the flues before using the fireplaces.  But he had contented himself with a quick, mental probe to make sure he wasn't sacrificing the life of a hapless squatter – be it bird or bat or mouse.  His comfort wasn't worth committing murder for.

 

_And what would you call igniting all your sleeping guests, then?_ he asks himself ruefully, toeing a log which had cracked dangerously close to the edge of the grate with the tip of his shoe.  But as the  blue-tipped flames writhe in another gust of moaning wind, Charles settles for taking another sip of his brandy and convinces himself that the chimney's ventilation isn't really a primary concern.

 

He isn't normally so careless, he reassures himself as he settles in his favorite armchair.  It was just hard to imagine anything _changing_ in this place.  The stone walls weathered time with an impressive stoicism, and though the mansion was young by any European standard, it still looms large in his childhood memories – a presence at times intimidating if rarely comforting, an institution unto itself that some small, irrational part of his mind believes has always been and always will be, exactly as it is.

 

But that isn't strictly true, is it?  He himself had brought change to commemorate his reluctant homecoming, frills of laughter and dinner-table conversation to wreathe the barren walls.  Even now, five sleeping minds occupy rooms which had stood vacant for entirely too long.  He can reach out and touch them if he wants to: Raven, utterly at ease in her own room in a way she rarely is in her own skin; Alex, content with the absence of prison walls.  If he closes his eyes and reaches just a _little_ deeper, Charles can sense that Sean is dreaming of flight, and that Hank is dreaming of Raven (not that he wants or needs to know the details of _that_ , he reminds himself hastily as he pulls back again), and Erik –

 

Well.  _Four_ sleeping minds, anyway.

 

Cautioning himself that it's really none of his business what Erik's doing awake at this hour (the other mutant is a private man, and Charles works hard to respect his privacy regardless of his own personal curiosity) the telepath presses two fingers to his temple anyway, their tips brandy-warm and cool with night, and brushes a wordless question lightly against the surface of the other man's mind.

 

At first, all Charles senses in return is surprise: surprise at the contact, quickly followed by surprise that a telepath would need to _ask_ at all.  It's the default reaction to what he's done, Charles knows, and he ignores it, focusing instead on the feeling of hesitation which comes after.  The sensation isn't hostile, not in the way it might be (or that he'd been half-expecting it would be); rather, it's the hesitation of someone who does not rely upon non-verbal communication as his default mode of expression and isn't immediately sure how to respond.  It would be easiest for Erik to reply in words; most people do.  As an academic, Charles knows how easy it is to think in text.  In his previous telepathic conversations with Erik, conducted mostly during their recruitment trips, that is how they've communicated with one another.  But he should have known that someone with Erik's astonishing linguistic abilities would automatically wish to reply in the same language with which he'd been questioned.  The realization brings a small smile to Charles' face -- one which he knows is amused and which he tries to pretend isn't also warmly affectionate.  Realigning his hand slightly so that he can keep his fingers where they are while also nestling his chin in his palm, Charles waits patiently for Erik to get his bearings.

 

Finally, Erik pushes an image back against Charles' mind.  It's an awkward first attempt (an image in place of an emotion, and one which is projected aimlessly into the shadows of the mansion; Erik doesn't know where Charles is, and doesn't know how to seek him out.  Catching the thought is almost random, and something a lesser telepath might not have managed.)  It's a mental snapshot of the window in Erik's bedroom, rain-lashed and rattling slightly in its old wooden frame.  The mutant's grey-green eyes are caught somewhere in the dark pane of glass, ghostly and insubstantial, and Charles knows he isn't trying to tell him that the storm has kept him awake.  It's about something more than that.  But the _what_ remains unclear.

 

Charles lets his eyes fall closed as he considers a moment, and then he gently presses the _sensations_ of the the study up against Erik's waiting consciousness: the warmth of the fire against the edges of his cheekbones; the solid comfort of the leather armchair; the faint, reassuring scent of the old books stacked neatly along the shelves near the door; the stately sense of order and security, anchored in the great mahogany desk in the corner and eddied around the table where the chess pieces stand quiet sentinel against the umber shadows.  He drops the clues like breadcrumbs along the fringes of Erik's curious mind.

 

Momentarily confusion, but a sense of revelation and understanding follows directly on its heels.  Charles catches himself smiling again as he leans back in his chair, unaware that he'd tilted forward in anticipation.  Erik's next signal, when it comes, is more focused – were it a bullet, it might have ricocheted hopefully off of the mantle piece before being caught in the gloved hand of Charles' mind.  More impressive still, it's a true sensation this time, an echo of the quiet question Charles had opened with.  An imitation; like any beginning student, Erik is simply parroting back what he's already heard.  But the copy is impressive nevertheless, bearing only the faintest trace-accent of the bold-printed letters Charles usually hears in his friend's thoughts.

 

_Restlessness.  Emptiness._   Charles presses the emotions back in response, though he does it lightly and with the utmost caution: they're meant to be an explanation, not a trigger for darker memories.  He's so concerned with bringing some distressing recollection to the surface of his companion's mind that he doesn't at first realize what he might be risking himself with the revelation.

 

There is silence between them for a long time after that.  It is hard to know whether Erik is at a loss for how to respond, or whether he simply doesn't wish to pry.  But Charles resists the temptation to find out for himself.  Erik's begun this pseudo-game with a natural handicap, and pushing deeper into his thoughts feels like cheating.

 

Erik's next sending is something of a puzzle; the vocabulary is right, but the grammar is wrong.  Charles senses a sort of … _deflection_ , like a stream of water scattered into individual droplets upon encountering an obstacle, and that is followed by the same questioning sensation as before.  He lets Erik sense his confusion, which prompts a quick sleight-of-hand – an image of the chessboard.  Cheating, technically; Erik may be intelligent, but he's also a creature of expediency.

 

_Distraction_ , Charles realizes.  _He's offering to distract me._   He formulates the suggestion himself and projects it back, gently correcting.  Then he pauses a moment to consider the offer. 

 

He's had entirely too much brandy already to hold his own against Erik in chess; that's a given.  He supposes they could always just sit up and talk instead.  But while he's always enjoyed Erik's conversation, Charles is overwhelmingly reluctant to give up the form of communication they're already sharing for its more mundane counterpart.  Telepathic conversation is something of a luxury when one can't tell anyone that they're a telepath, and he hadn't realized how much he'd longed for that unusual intimacy until now.  Raven's insistence that her brother stay well clear of her head tended to preclude such things, and there was no one else.

 

Charles finally signals agreement, but he adds a stipulation: _this way_ , he thinks, the request manifesting as a gentle tug on Erik's mind.

 

Another pause, followed by another questioning sensation.  Charles responds by forming the image of a cat in his mind's eye.  Nothing detailed: just the faintest outline of one, colorless and without character.  He plants the sketch into Erik's mind and then waits, childishly amused at the other man's initial confusion.  The whole thing is childish, really; this is a game he'd devised for Raven and himself to play when they were children, harkening back to a time when she didn't guard her secrets so jealously.  It had been especially useful for long, dull trips or those miserably grey afternoons when they were both supposed to be studying.

 

Of course, Raven had had the benefit of a verbal explanation beforehand.  But Charles resists the urge to explain.  He's curious to see what Erik's ingenuity would devise on its own.

 

Some of Charles' delight and amusement bleeds through the tentative connection between them when he receives his answer in the shape of a very detailed feline, sporting thick, silver-grey fur and eyes which are, coincidentally, the exact same shade of blue as Charles'.  Pleased, the telepath then begins to build a room around the image: walls which Erik promptly divides into sturdy red bricks; a floor which Erik covers with a braided rug.  They fill the space with furniture and brick-a-brack, crowded enough to shame any Victorian parlor, and when there's no more room to fill Charles opens the door and sends the cat out into the hall. 

 

It's a simple game, but it's not necessarily easy.  The more detailed the cat's environment becomes, the harder it is to hold everything in focus.  Erik holds his own for a while, though; Charles can feel his concentration and his interest mixing with the pigments he throws out into the void of the world they're constructing between them, sharing the excitement of shared invention and creation.  There's no room in this world for whatever nightmares or anxieties kept Erik awake long into the small hours of the morning; no room for the unpleasant phantoms of Charles' neglected childhood. 

 

But there _is_ room for absolutely everything else.

 

When the limitless possibilities themselves become exhausting, Charles gently takes over – lifting the non-existent cat by the scruff of its imagined neck and depositing it playfully in a room much more familiar. 

 

Erik is very clearly amused by this abrupt change of scenery, but he obliges by picturing himself sitting on his bed – long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, back braced against the headboard, still fully clothed in his jeans and black turtleneck but barefoot – watching the cat they've imagined together leaping up onto the coverlet beside him.  This exercise would be impossible for Erik alone – like giving Shakespeare to a first-grader – but it's child's play for Charles.  He expertly imagines the cat flicking its soft tail against the arch of Erik's right foot, and is gratified at Erik's startled surprise when he actually _feels_ the phantom caress of fur against his bare skin. 

 

A slightly less drunk and drowsy Charles might wonder if he was trespassing at this point (he _does_ have to dip deeper into Erik's mind to convince his body that it's feeling something that isn't there) but it's all meant in good fun.  And besides, Erik seems more intrigued than put-off.  Charles lets the cat's tail curl intimately around one exposed ankle before coyly drawing away again, and then it's _his_ turn to be surprised: Erik pushes a slightly altered image at him, one in which he's drawing up the fabric of his pants to expose his foreleg in clear invitation.

 

It's an almost flirtatious gesture (something that is delightfully at odds with his normal interactions with Erik) but Charles' mirth is abruptly pulled up short when he pauses to examine the newly-exposed skin … if skin it can be called at all.  Erik's calf is almost as leathery as Charles' armchair, lost beneath a braided network of old, ugly scar tissue.

 

Charles has shared a hotel room with Erik on numerous occasions.  He knows very well that Erik's legs don't look like that.  But he isn't looking at Erik right now; he's looking at Erik's mental projection of himself – at an image created by someone still too inept at painting to conceal how he truly feels about his subject.

 

Not that Charles is one to talk.  Before he can stop himself, he floods Erik's thoughts with an all-encompassing wave of affectionate, protective pity, and like a light being switched off the image abruptly blinks out of existence.

 

_Damn_ , he sighs inwardly, though he has the grace to keep that one to himself.  What he sends instead is an apology full of regret and self-abasement: _I'm sorry, Erik._  

 

It takes a while for the other mutant's aloof _Goodnight, Charles_ , to wind its way down into the study, but it's encouraging in its own way.  Though it's undeniably a dismissal, it also lacks any trace of heat or hostility. 

 

Charles' eyes flicker back towards the fire now, dwindled down to soft, red-eyed embers, and for the first time in at least an hour he acknowledges the sighing of the wind around him again.  He supposes he should sleep; they have a lot of training to do in the morning.

 

For the moment, though, he simply leans back in his chair, eyes closing to ensnare the last echoing footsteps of more welcome phantoms –

 

the fading heat of the dying fire against his skin; the aftertaste of alcohol heavy against his tongue; and the warm, familiar press of another mind entwined with his in the dark.


End file.
